Love For All Kinds
by TheRockNRollBeauty
Summary: Collection of RusAme drabbles that I did on tumblr. Will have some explicit themes, including sex and drug use. Genres will vary.
1. When The Blood Begins To Flow

**So, I'm doing a series of drabbles of tumblr based on the idea that there are "Four Kinds of Love." First up is Erotic Love. Only I completely failed and just wanted to write heroin addict America again. Only I tried to make it sexy and...I dunno. Did I fail?**

**This isn't supposed to be a sequel to "Heroin" or anything, just a short little drabble I wrote. **

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**When the Blood Begins to Flow **

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><p>Alfred uses Ivan's scarf without asking, as he normally does. If it were anyone else, the Russian would have instantaneously beat them to a bloodied tar for laying a single profane finger upon the garment. But not this time, no, not when it is Alfred who is using it. Not when Ivan knows and <em>lusts<em> for the show that is in store for him.

Alfred grunts as he loops the scarf around the thinning muscle of his upper arm, holding one end in his teeth as he pulls the fabric taunt and tight around the reddening skin.

Cramped in the intimate space of Alfred's apartment, Ivan finds himself sitting close to the American on the gritty shag carpet, knees pulled up to his chest as he watches. Ivan doesn't shoot up with Alfred. He never does. His pleasure does not come from the drug.

To watch as Alfred holds an American-brand Zippo lighter up underneath a well-worn spoon-the smell of the lit gas and the glow of orange on Alfred's face in the darkened room, the way the little flame flecks on his glasses and the curve of his eyeballs-is enough to make Ivan tingle with pleasure. He pulls his legs away and settles into a cross legged position, chin in hand as he watches Alfred load and flick at a cheap syringe.

The look on Alfred's face, the concentration and _need_ in that normally carefree and exuberant expression, it is strangely_—_

It is strangely_—_

_Sexy_.

The word hardly ever passes through Ivan's thoughts, and never through his studied tongue; it is a simple, uncouth, _common_ phrase, but at the moment Ivan can thinking of a descriptor none the more apt. Alfred's movements are transcendent of the mere physical gestures, they are measured, reverent, intimate. Alfred treats the loaded needle the way he would treat a lover, reveling in its very touch, the very feeling of the cool metal against his puckered and veined skin, the gluttonous anticipation that beads in sweat on his forehead, his pink tongue taunt between his teeth. And in turn Ivan revels in the sight of America caressing the smack, erotic and slow in his titillation. Ivan feels himself twitch at the salacious scene.

It's almost as if Ivan isn't even present, the way Alfred focuses on his reddened arm and traces a circle around the newly chosen spot, amidst all the yellowed punctures and faded scars. He takes a short breath of anticipation, and then presses the rigid needle up to the yielding skin, testing and teasing before relishing in the sensation as he pushes in, the sensation of his own flesh quivering and pulsing _heat_ around the intrusion. Alfred's trembling hands are practiced, he doesn't jab around futilely, desperately digging into skin; one prick is all it takes for the needle to slide in up to its hilt, and then Alfred pushes down on the plunger and it spills into his body. He lets out a low moan as it fills him up completely. And through this all Ivan watches with hungry eyes.

It is their foreplay. The way Alfred aligns the needle up to one of his pulsing veins, the way Ivan can imagine the heat that courses up through Alfred's arms and turning his massive strength into jelly, the way Alfred's eyes widen and then slack as the tainted blood reaches his brain and begins to take effect, the way a little dab of red peaks out of the new mark just below his elbow-

At that point Alfred has done his part and it is Ivan's turn to take over, but the show has not drawn its curtains yet.

From experience_—_ _they had done this so, so many times, Alfred's performance becoming more and more enriching and believable__—_ Ivan knows that Alfred won't enjoy this next part as much as he will.

He rises to his knees and puts his hands on Alfred's shoulder and pushes him back against the carpeting with ease because it is Alfred's turn to be yielding now that his strength is leaving him in bursts. Ivan waits a few moments until the initial brightness in Alfred's overly alert eyes dims before slipping his hands under Alfred's shirt to engage in his own reverent touches and caresses. He kisses Alfred's sloppy mouth, wetting the dry interior with his tongue, as his fingers find the bindings of Alfred's jeans and pull them down. He attacks his neck, licking over the frantic veins there, feeling where the heat coursed through the body, intoxicating himself through Alfred.

Ivan can allow himself to be selfish, because it is no longer about Alfred's pleasure; the American will simply ride out his own senseless bliss on his own. Any gratification Ivan gives him at this point will be nothing but a distraction to what is now blooming inside his head.

So Ivan permits his hunger to completely come loose.


	2. Dumb Love

**Second of the tumblr prompts! For the "Banal Love" part. In which Alfred is overly excited over Ivan's visit and does something stupid. This is completely unrelated to the first prompt, as you will see. And, unlike the first one, this is actually fluff! Hooray!**

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**Dumb Love**

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><p>Ivan quietly rapped his knuckles on the door of America's home, wondering if he had arrived too early for Alfred to be awake. He knew very well the American enjoyed his sleep. Perhaps, if he didn't get a response, Ivan would slip into America's window as he had done in the past. Although that had been for the purpose of espionage, rather than slipping into Alfred's bed to catch the warm body by surprise.<p>

He continued his knocking, though the idea of sneaking into Alfred's room was appealing to him more and more each moment.

Ivan's fantasy disappeared, however, when he heard a muffled shout of "Coming!" come from within the house. _Oh well_. As long as he got to see Alfred, he could live without surprising the American with frigid, bedside grope.

Suddenly Ivan heard a yelp from beyond the door, followed by a series of loud crashes and bangs bookended by another surprised cry that Ivan identified as distinctly Alfred's.

He dove a hand into his pocket and fumbled around for his spare key. He had knocked for the sake of politeness, but the cry sounded like Alfred was in trouble, maybe he had _hurt_ himself-

Ivan quickly unlocked and wrenched open the door, flooding into Alfred's foyer, purposefully striding and looking around for a sign of him_—_

_—_ Only to find Alfred sprawled out on the carpet, blinking his eyes owlishly, looking entirely out of it, his body half on, half off the staircase.

Ivan stood, blinking dumbly at his lover lying on his back near the foot of the stairs. Staring numbly because _even Alfred could not be that stupid__—_

Alfred winced and propped himself up on his elbows, suddenly looking at Ivan, upsides-down, as if he just realized that the tall Russian was there. His hair and clothing were ruffled, glasses knocked askew on his face, giving the Russian a disoriented look that Ivan would have found cute if he was still not struck dumb.

"Hey, Vanya!" Alfred rebounded from his pain and gave Ivan a signature smile, wriggling his body down from the slope of the stairs and onto the hardwood floor, trying to sit up further but wincing as he moved his foot. Alfred stretched his arms out to Ivan, like a child wanting to be carried.

"Can you_—_ _ow__—_ help me up, dude?"

"Fredka," Ivan put his hand to his face, reflecting the embarrassment that the blissful American _should_ be showing, "Did you fall down the stairs?"

Alfred rolled over onto his belly and pushed himself up into a crouched position as he eased his way to his feet.

"What? No way, Vanya. I'm not dumb enough to do that-"

Alfred yelped as he put his weight on his right foot, stumbling forward and crashing into Ivan, scrambling to hold onto the Russian's coat. Ivan grabbed onto him tightly as he started to slip back onto the floor.

After a moment of making sure that he had a secure hold on the clumsy American, Ivan sighed and gave him a patronizing pat on the head.

"Will you still be insisting that you did not fall?"

Alfred mumbled incoherently into Ivan's coat.

"что?"

Alfred untucked his head and looked up at Ivan, some of that stubborn annoyance still in his pouting expression.

"I didn't _fall_. I lost my balance s'all. And besides, it was only 'cause I was rushing so fast to see you, you dumb Russian bear."

Ivan let out a little smile at the endearment, and pinched Alfred's side.

"Well, try not to hurt yourself so next time, my chubby little sunflower."

Alfred's cheeks colored and he pouted further. "Don't call me fat! And how can a sunflower be fat anyway? Your stupid-ass nicknames don't make any sense."

"There is a difference between being 'chubby' and 'fat' my little one. Though it pleases me greatly that you are neither. It is simply so amusing to see your expression when I call you those things."

"You're still a jerk."

Despite the insult, Alfred leaned onto Ivan more as he brought his arms up around the Russian's neck.

"Whatever, my foot hurts. Carry me to the couch, please?"

Ivan's lip curled.

"No."

Alfred gave him a look of mock hurt.

"Ivan! Please? Please, please, please, please, please, please_—_ ?"

"Why?" Ivan growled, if only to stop the annoying mantra of Alfred's begging.

"Why? Well 'cause it's all your fault that I hurt my foot in the first place."

"Fredka, I am not going to carry you-"

"Ivan," Alfred whined, drawing out the Russian's name, "Hasn't any of my heroic behavior rubbed off on you?"

Alfred was always stubborn if it meant getting what he wanted. Perhaps Ivan could beat him using his own fantasies and silly metaphors?

He took Alfred's chin in his hand and tilted the boy's head up.

"Ah, but if I behave as the hero, then that would make you the 'damsel', yes?"

Alfred shook his head insistently, his face serious to the point of being amusing.

"No! Haven't you seen _any_ movies, dude? When one of the heroes is hurt, the other _always_ comes to save the day! So we're both heroes!"

Ivan realized he was not going to win against Alfred's silly little games. He shook his head, once again conceding his defeat to Alfred's "unbeatable" hero logic.

Though Alfred did act very un-heroically when Ivan hefted him none-too-gently into his arms, making Alfred yelp and squirm around in the hold in a most undignified manner. Ivan grunts as Alfred elbows him in the chest.

"Do not move so, darling, you are the one who wanted this in the first place-"

He dumps Alfred onto the couch, a little sadistic smile passing his face as Alfred gasped at the rough treatment.

"Ow! What the hell? Are you mad at me or something?"

Ivan sat next to Alfred, unwinding his tangled limbs, lifting up Alfred's hurt ankle and resting it in his lap, keeping the limb elevated. He sighed and began to stroke Alfred's shin.

"нет, America, I was only hoping that my coming here would allow us to do things other than lie dormant on your couch."

Alfred gave Ivan an enthusiastic smack on the arm that belied his 'injury.'

"Don't worry, I heal fast! I mean, it's a little slower thanks to the bad economy and all, but still, I'll be feeling better in no time." Alfred tilted his head and gave Ivan a smile that made the Russian feel a little more reassured.

"Very well. But I will be picking that place that we shall be going to. None of your fast food restaurants."

Alfred rolled his eyes.

"Okay. But you're paying. I paid last time."

Ivan chuckled. Yes, Alfred had indeed splurged on the Dollar Menu meal he had bought for Ivan last time. But he was determined for them to have _one_ formal date as a couple, and nothing, certainly not cost, would stand in the way. If need be, Ivan would physically carry the clumsy American.

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><p><strong>Fyi, I am working on the last chapter of PRS. I'm just a giant perfectionist...But I did post a teaser of the chapter on my tumblr a few days back. In the meantime, enjoy the fluff. <strong>


	3. The World I Know

**Third prompt, based on the Thanatos/Eros type of love: loving someone despite or because of knowing that one day they will die. I wasn't sure if I fit the prompt exactly but I kinda like the end result. :) Soo….**

**Character death in this one. I bet you can guess who...**

**.**

**The World I Know**

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><p>In that strange, ethereal way that spoke of transcendence, of something greater than the roil and trouble of volatile emotions, it had been beautiful<p>

It had been peaceful and quiet. It had been natural. There had been no brutality, no invasion, war, or revolution, and little pain. Any hurt that Alfred had felt had been soothed by Ivan's callused hands that caressed his chest, still glowing and golden and healthy-looking. Whenever Alfred gave a tiny wince, Ivan would move his hand to the source of the pain, gently rubbing over the skin until Alfred's face relaxed.

He was conscious, the entire time. He was at peace, but he didn't want to go to sleep yet. He was awake to feel Ivan's touch, to watch the eyes as they watched him, as they took in every rise and fall of chest, every invisible wisp of air.

They sat in the tall grasses, golden brown fields of wheat. Alfred had to lay on the ground. Laying in Ivan's lap was uncomfortable for the American, and he was already so much at peace that Ivan didn't want to disturb him.

"My chest feels weird," Alfred mumbled, hands folded over his stomach. Ivan delicately touched Alfred's left breast with the barest pad of his fingers, and began to stroke. Light, feather touches, meant to soothe, to keep calm. Meant to gently ease Alfred to sleep.

"Better?" He whispered, voice as powdery as his touch.

Alfred doesn't nod, too content and at ease to move or speak. His eyes dip and travel to the corner of the whites. But the steady, untroubled exhale was enough for Ivan. He moved his other hand to stroke at Alfred's hair, fingering the lengthened locks, letting them slip down to splay over Alfred's forehead.

"Alfred?" He tucked a little piece of hair behind the ear of his little one.

"Are you going to sleep?"

Alfred's eyes shifted up to focus on Ivan. His eyes don't show resignation, they don't show fear, or anger, or a burning want to live. They are peaceful; accepting. Contented.

"All right," Ivan had his answer, "You can go to sleep now."

He leaned down close, close enough to press a feather-light kiss to Alfred's lips, his hand stroking the skin above the American's heart, feeling every single last beat. Feeling the final bits of breath whistling through his blood.

Alfred winced a little at the sudden burst of warmth in his chest, but Ivan kissed him again, thumb brushing over the muscles of Alfred chest as they briefly twitched.

"Go to sleep." The Russian gently cooed, his eyes right above Alfred's, watching, showing the American that he is there, as his little one slowly closes his eyes.

Ivan remained, finger lightly touching still muscles, long after Alfred's eyes had hidden like frightened bluebirds under his eyelids, long after the downy breath ceased whistling through his teeth. Ivan soon found his eyes closed as well; his emotions dulcet, and not entirely there.

It took a long while, a moment that seemed to stretch out into days, into years___—___ it took a long while for Ivan to realize that he truly felt nothing.

He opened his eyes to Alfred's stilled and closed face. He suppressed the urge to lean in and breath into Alfred's lips, the little dark part where he could see the peek of tongue. The urge to push air, to push life back into Alfred's body. But he couldn't. Even if it was possible. Alfred had been content. He had been ready.

Ivan left Alfred to rest on the ground, body perfect framed against the earth, hair ruffled with the motion of the wheat grass against the wind. He had left Alfred to go walking, _exploring_. Exploring the land. A land that he had suddenly realized he did not know very well.

Ivan can't claim to have ever spent an extended amount of time in America. The _state_ at least, he noted with a wan smile. That's the type of lewd joke that Alfred would have appreciated, but it was not for the Alfred who was now, for what Alfred had become. Alfred now wasn't earthly, wasn't profane, wasn't laced down to any carnality.

The Alfred who giggled under Ivan's touches as his fingers trailed along his stomach, the Alfred whose lips were always gentle bows under his jawline, the Alfred who had overcome his pains and prejudices to breach his own walls and meet Ivan halfway: that Alfred was gone.

Dead.

Yes, that Alfred was dead. Ivan had accepted-far more readily than he could have ever imagine-that he wouldn't see his little one again. But what he would not accept was that Alfred was _gone_. Because that was simply not the truth.

Land. Land was still there. Alfred was still in the spirit of the land, the trees, the fields of wheat that fed into the streams and brooks and mountains. Alfred was living in the foundations of the cities that still stood tall and proud even with their blue-eyed inspiration gone.

Sky too. The sky curved above him like the convex of Alfred's eyes, blue overwhelming the white of clouds in the same way that Alfred's irises had always swelled with happiness and innocent excitement, pushing the slivers of white to the wayside. It could have been unnerving to anyone who did not know Alfred-but Ivan _had_ known Alfred, and he had loved his eyes dearly.

He laughed at the sky as he imagined himself swallowed up in the blue.

Little, shaking laughs.

Alfred had always been so natural. And now it all made sense. All of what Alfred was could be found in the terrain of his lands. Wheat fields for the hair. Desert plains for the freckled skin that cracked at the beds of nails. Clear sky, clouds for the eyes.

Eyes.

His eyes, Alfred's eyes. His eyes dry. His eyes bruised with industry. Alfred's eyes melted into the pool of the firmament.

Was he sad? Was he sad, or was he just overwhelmed with beauty?

Ivan's emotions were not his own, no. They were those breathless emotion that came only from without, from inspiring landscape and a sense of _unity _with the world as a whole.

Unity with the Land. Unity with America. Unity with Alfred.

A different unity than he had had in the past. Less insistent. Less anxious. Devoid of a desire to preserve and treasure, a fear of loss. Devoid of any terror because that consonance would always exist.

And it would be halcyon peace the likes of which he had never experienced.


End file.
